Take Me Home
by onlystardust
Summary: "I waited for you," the forger tells him. "For endless days, countless years, but I could not find you." After the movie; Eames is delusional, Arthur is in denial, Robert is a lost soul, & Ariadne is left placing flowers by a tombstone. One-shot. Eames/Robert and slight Eames/Arthur.


Eames traces that same shape over and over, a continual loop of perpetual pain, the bed sheets are marked with this sign it has been etched into the fabric, the skin, marked into the mind. Shadows settle on the barren side of the bed, the bed missing a body, a mark, so the forger must find solace in the shape of eternity. He traces this shape over and over until he can feel his fingers burning, blood boiling, because he lost his mark, because his mind is troubled and he is desperate, desperate to feel something else other than complete and utter devastation.

He destroyed it all.

It all went up in flames, all except the memories.

A dry, broken sob wracks throughout his body, his entire being heaves from the force of it, but he smothers that sound and all that escapes is a pathetic, whimpering noise that would be expected of an injured mutt and not of a grown man. Salty tears stain the sheets, dripping down onto the indentation that he created, the continual loop. How painful it is to lose a love, a life, a purpose, and to know that you will never be complete without the other half of you, the other half to you, the other half of your beating heart that barely beats without them.

He often wonders what it is that he is waiting for, who it is that sits and stays and sobs over, for all he knows is that he is waiting, days upon endless days and he doesn't know why, he can't quite remember. And what is worth running to, he wonders? A world that waits, a world that beckons with bright lights, a world that attempts to lure him in with sinfully seductive temptresses, or should he instead run towards a being that ceases to be, the man who never waited, the one who would barely notice the absence of the man that is dying over his absence.

* * *

Arthur visits often.

You tricked yourself into believing that it was love, but it wasn't, Arthur says softly, warily, as though the forger is insane, and Eames supposes that he is.

Insanity isn't entirely unpleasant.

His love is here.

Arthur leaves again.

* * *

"Did you miss me? I know that you did."

Arms snake around Eames' waist, "I did."

"You did?" Robert whispers, incredulous.

"With all of my heart." Eames chokes out.

Robert holds the forger closer, "Did you love me?"

As he turns, Eames sees that this is not his love, not his Robert, his darling has failed to reinvent himself, but the forger carves his heart out regardless, "With all that I am." and this love will suffice for now.

* * *

"You can't keep living like this, Eames." Arthur sighs, brow furrowed furiously as he rubs at his temples, as though this is all so exhausting, so tiring, so taxing, but Arthur hasn't a clue as to what it is like of a night. "It's not living."

The forger feels two hands lock around his face, two firm hands trying desperately, and failing, to bring him back to reality, but the pointman isn't nearly strong enough to carry out such a feat. "It's. Not . Living." he enunciates, as though precision and articulation will prove effective, but Arthur should know better.

Eames stares back blankly at the man, the one who calls himself Arthur, Arthur who was once a lover, twice a darling, but never a friend. He gently pries Arthur's hands from his skin, because this isn't his skin to touch and Eames isn't his love to love.

* * *

"Stay with me." Robert cries, but the forget can't, not when this is false, not when this is not his love, not when he must continue searcing, waiting, wanting, slowly wasting away. He holds the forger's hands tightly enough to drain the color from it, desperately enough that it reminds him of a drowning man, a dying man, but this is already dead and the forger forces himself to remember that as he lets go."I'm afraid when I'm without you."

When Eames wakes, he gasps like a drowning man desperately fighting to catch his last breath, a drowning man struggling to keep his head above water, and he faintly wonders what a match they make. He tries, but fails, not to be ill, but this is killing him, wearing him down beyond the point of exhaustion, and he knows that he can't continue on like this.

A drowning man and a dying man, such a pair.

_I'm afraid, when I'm without you,_ the words ring throughout his head as he stumbles towards the bathroom, the bile in the back of his throat rising, burning, escaping, and he can only hear those words as he coughs up blood in the bathroom sink, "I'm not living, when I'm without you."

* * *

"I'll be good," his love cries, as he makes terrible pained noises of pure agony, sobs that pierce straight through the remains of the forger's heart, soul, sanity, and obliterate them entirely. Eames thought he found his love, his darling, but he was fooled; this man was an illusion, a pathetic one at that, a shadow of his love, a shade, a fraction, he is not the half to his whole, he is a lie. "I promise. Just let me in. I'll be nice, I promise.

* * *

The forger wakes with the shakes each night. He is a sweaty, unstable, incoherent mess as he staggers towards the bathroom; he is wasting away, slowly but inevitably, deteriorating with each passing day, and as he glances up at his reflection in the mirror he is met with a face that is not his own. "I'm not me, when I'm without you."

* * *

Arthur returns.

Eames puts on a united front, an façade that is not fractured by delusions and dreams of his darling, and he takes a job, accepts it enthusiastically, and Arthur believes that this is the only way to get the old Eames back, by bringing him back into the world, by bringing him back to reality, and by showing him how easily the mind can be tricked.

"You'll take it?" Arthur checks, eyes cautiously scanning over the forger's figure, scanning and scrutinizing, and picking up on details that would be hidden to the untrained eye, to the ignorant eye. But he sees the dark lines, the bruises, the self-inflicted wounds that Eames attempts to disguise; the forger thought he was in limbo, he couldn't distinguish from reality and fantasy, and he took to inscribing the days on his arm, a tally of time passing, and each scratch was sharper, deeper and _deadlier_ than the last.

"Are you sure you're up to it?"

"I'm as right as rain, Arthur." the forger lies easily.

He thought that Arthur was trained better than that.

* * *

"Terribly sorry, darling." Eames splutters.

But he's not sorry, he's smiling, he's peaceful, he's almost home, and Arthur yells because he can't restrain himself, "No, you're not, you asshole!"

The pointman is aghast as he collapses on his knees down by the forger's side, his hands start to shake, they flutter around the forger, as he searches for the wound, the bullet hole, the opportunity to save the selfish man.

"You're such a bastard, Eames." he spits, as he puts pressure on it.

Blood _oozes_ from the wound, trickles between Arthur's fingers as the forger reminds him, "You can't stay mad at a dying man, darling." he reasons, but the pointman is inclined to disagree.

"You shot yourself." Arthur observes angrily. "Why would you shoot yourself?"

The forger starts to choke on the blood that is congealing in his throat, "You know why." he manages, and Arthur doesn't blink back the tears that burn his eyes, burn straight through this retinas, just how this image his burned itself into his memory, etched in for all eternity.

"You're an idiot." the pointman cries, "You're such a stupid, stupid idiot."

"I always liked you, Arthur." Eames weakly smiles, before hea ttempts to swallow down the blood that continues rising, but he fails dismally, the result is indefinitely worse; for he begins to cough harshly, his entire body heaves weakly with the movements, and Arthur is distraught.

"You're going to limbo; you know that, don't you? You're so stupid, Eames" Arthur blubbers, before he turns the gun on himself. "What's stopping me from coming with you?"

Eames weakly lifts a hand, fumbles until it is gripping Arthur's, "I'm going home."

"Take me." the pointman isn't demanding, he's pleading, even though he's never pleaded for a thing in his entire life, he's never begged for another to spare his life, and yet here he is, begging to be taken to limbo. "Take me with you."

He coughs harshly, bringing up dark blood, blood that stains his lips, "You can't come."

"Why can't I?" Arthur asks, tears in his eyes.

The gun that he holds, presses against his own temple, trembles as he awaits the forger's response, the forger who is quickly fading, forgetting, feeling not a thing but content and delirious; he conceals that contentment well, though, for Arthur is anything but joyous.

"I'm looking for him." he struggles to get out the words, struggles to speak past the thickening blood in his throat, the blood that only rises, the blood that escapes from his mouth and trickles down his face.

"You're an idiot, Eames, you're such an idiot." he shakes his head, cheeks wet with anger.

It tastes of blood, when the pointman presses his lips to the forger's.

* * *

Eames wakes on the sand. Waves crash loudly behind him, but break softly as they near him, and there are seagulls soaring up above him, he can hear their call as he starts to stand, a picture of paradise.

"Eames?" a voice calls to him, almost urgently.

"My love?" the forger turns, but sees not a soul in sight.

He turns, twists in a full circle, scans his eyes across the scenery, but he is not here.

"Eames?" a voice calls again.

It is his voice, a lovely voice, the voice that he has been longing to hear.

"My love?!" he shouts, spinning around faster.

The forger searches frantically for the source of the sound; a figure appears, a way bit down, the figure is only a blur, a shape, a moving shadow, but it is incentive enough for the forger who starts heedlessly running towards the shape.

"My love!" he cries in triumph, upon seeing the face of his love, seeing the shape of his love as he sprints towards him, eyes swelling with that same triumphant joy, that shared sorrow, so bittersweet, and as their bodies collided there is no bitterness, only sweetness. Eames pulls his love in tightly, he is assured that he shall never let him go, but only if this is indeed his love; as he wraps his arms tightly around the waist of his love, he wants to wholeheartedly believe that it is.

* * *

Eames is gone.

He dies before Ariadne appears, and Arthur surmises that this is something the forger had planned on, for he wouldn't want her to have to witness such a sight, not with her untarnished innocence, her unstained hands, her pure heart, clean mind, whereas Arthur is corrupted.

Arthur has seen enough people die to know how ugly it can be; the forger's breathing stutters, as he continues to choke on the blood that fills up his lungs, congeals in his throat, and the pointman knows that there is no point putting pressure on the wound but he can't move his hands away.

"You're an idiot." the pointman continues to chant, as he clings to the forger's lifeless figure, he barely notices Ariadne's arrival, and he knows that they are jeopardizing everything, by cradling over the lifeless body of a lost man, chanting his name over and over as though this will be enough to bring him back, but, for once, he doesn't care.

Ariadne is stronger than Arthur.

She builds them a room, a private venue, puts walls up around them, to shield them from the mind of the mark, all the while Arthur continues to murmur insults and hold the forger so tightly that his knuckles turn white, so tightly that the blood seeps through and stains his clothes.

"You're so stupid," he cries, not caring for the state that he is in, the job that he is jeopardizing, not caring for anything else but Eames. "You're so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid."

Ariadne falls down to her knees, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks, as her arms encircle Arthur from the side; she tries to pull him closer, tries to pull him away, but he just won't budge.

"He's lost." she says.

Arthur won't hear it, won't accept it.

"He's gone." she cries, and he wonders why?

Arthur was the one who wouldn't hear what Eames had to say, wouldn't accept his madness as reality, wouldn't believe him, wouldn't listen, instead he pushed him, gave him the final shove that he needed, and the forger's blood would forever be on the pointman's hands.

"No, he's not. He's not. He's stupid." Arthur disagrees. "Stupid? Yes. But gone? No, he's not gone."

Denial is sweeter, kinder, almost tolerable.

* * *

"I waited for you," the forger tells him. "For endless days, I looked for countless years, but I could not find you."

"You've found me now." his love promises, but the forger is not certain.

He releases his hold on his love, retracting a step or two, as he closely examines the man before him. "Draw it." he says, after he bends to retrieve a stick from the debris washed up on the shoreline.

His love will know, undoubtedly, what to draw.

He takes the stick, drags it across the sand and draws an infinite loop.

"Oh, darling," the forger coos. "I've finally found you."

"We are unbounded." Robert tells him, his voice soft and sweet, a melodic tune that brushes against his skin, caresses it, like the gentle breeze. "We are limitless…we are infinite."

It tastes of salt when they kiss.

* * *

Arthur tends to Eames.

The mind of the man is lost, but his body remains.

This is enough for the pointman, who has always prided himself on his ability to detach himself from his emotions, to not let them rule him, run him, but now he is merely a shade of his former self, a fraction, barely reminiscent of the Arthur he once was.

Ariadne visits.

She offers her condolences continuously, and bursts into a fit of tears every time she sets her sights upon the forger's lifeless body, but Arthur refuses to abandon the man, he is tied to him, intricately linked, looped, bound by and to him, and he will not walk away from the man he should have never turned his back on.

Eames will return.

The pointman believes this, and it goes past the point of sweet denial, it goes further than that, it delves into delusion, into lunacy, almost insanity, for he tends to the man as though he were indeed still living. And if he wakes – or, in Arthur's mind, _when_ he wakes – he will not be who he once was, he will have left parts of himself scattered, left behind in limbo, and he will not be content with this world of simplicity, there is no creation here, not for Eames, it would not suffice for Mal.

* * *

"Do you know what it is to be a lover?" Mal once asked her.

Ariadne didn't, she still doesn't, but she has witnessed what it is to be a half to a whole.

She worries about Arthur, frets for him constantly. What he is doing to himself isn't healthy, torturing himself to no end, and then there is Eames; the forger abandoned his body, abandoned his mind, for the sake of Robert Fischer, and Arthur forces himself to keep watch. Eames' body is wilting away, his mind is wasting, deteriorating, and the worst part is that she almost doesn't want him to return; he will live in limbo, albeit dangerously and in a state of delusion, but he will die in reality.

If he returns to reality, he will not be able to bear it. Ariadne places a small bouquet of flowers down on the green grass beside Robert Fischer's tombstone, because the guilt always gnawed at her, and because she knows, deep down, that the forger was long lost before they lost him to limbo.

The flowers aren't just for Robert.

"Do you know what it is to be a lover? To be a half of a whole?"

* * *

This is not what it is to be a lover; this is what it is to be a half to a whole.

"And what if you wake?" Robert asks earnestly, as they bask in the afterglow.

Limbs entangled, hearts racing but content, and minds at ease.

"We will grow old together, darling." the forger promises.

"But what if you wake?" he wonders.

"I will return." Eames swears, and presses a kiss to Robert's temple.

"And then what?"

"I will return, and we will begin again."


End file.
